Sing sweet oh Dark Night
by booboobegone
Summary: Just something I wrote, but I am most proud of the atmosphere and the emotion in it. Read and review!


Booted feet connect in solid steps with the cobbled sidewalk, misted breath fanning out to plume over a leather clad left shoulder as his steps carry him ever onward. He could have sped in a blur to his destination, could have driven too but he preferred this sedate pace, preferred the moments to gather his thoughts and segue into a frame of mind where he could enjoy the coming encounter the way he was meant to; the way his nature always demanded.

He wasn't sure when he became enamoured of this most clandestine event or when he felt it necessary to hide it, but he did and he enjoyed the fact that this was, after a thousand years or more of his crippling disenchantment with all things, this was so much more intimate an act than anything he'd ever done in his life. It was more than simple sex, or fucking as today's society seemed fond of calling it and wrought with more emotion than encounters with women he'd supposedly loved. But did he /truly/ love anyone? He thought he might love his family but he also found them vexing most times and would oft retreat to his study to paint or to read; all for the silence of his own musings.

He lifts his shoulders as he rounds the corner, pausing only briefly in the cool to take in the soft sounds, the faded televisions, the occasional scrape of a shoe from the block adjacent or the whisper hiss of dried leaves and the rumble of cars from Ursuline St., continuing with steps determined now, excitedly anxious; as anxious as he's ever really been before. The shadowed walk presents nothing hidden from his keen vision and she never leaves the light on for him regardless, for neither stand on such niceties as to draw attention to what he is doing and with whom. SO he knocks, and he waits, so patient for her light steps to the door. The sound of the latch turning makes him smile, for no lock could deter him should he seek a more forceful entry to this domicile, though he does not, and has not ever considered such a gauche display of violence; not here, not with her.

The dark stained wood swings wide and he beholds her figure cast in gossamer shadows, haloed in the light from a room distant and he smiles, ever the gentleman, and sketches a quick bow, head angled in a manner few have ever seen from so proud a man; supplicant and lord all at once. He is both, to her, and her whim and she merely nods, a regal dip of her head as she steps aside to allow him his entry. The door clicks shut once he is past the swing of it and he feels her small hands lift his coat from his shoulders and he turns, small box in his hand. There is something to be said for the old traditions, though the ways of his kind were mostly lost to the more pedestrian pop culture where all such creatures are ravenous fools. Not so him and he sees the delight on her lovely countenance as he slides the ancient silver band over her ring finger, relishing in the soft sound of her fathomless joy as he essentially claims her, the ancient ritual now complete. He takes her hand and leads her into the interior, finding her room as he did before, enjoying the soft feel of her skin lightly rubbing against his palm before he turns to her fully, drawing her into his arms finally.

She makes a sound as she settles against him and he brushes the tendrils of her hair back to join the rest of the thick mass that falls in cascading waves down her narrow spine, dark tresses that fall like silk when he sifts it through his fingers, as now. He meets her shining eyes and she murmurs that he seems cold tonight and he responds, his lush mouth hovering over her ear, fanning a heated breath or two(though he doesn't need to breathe) against her skin with his question.

"Would you feed me of your life this night my sweet?"

It has an oddly formal cadence, given the circumstances of this culminating union between them, her reply as soft as she moulds to his body.

"I give you my life this night, and for every night after until my end, my lord."

He smiles and lays the gentlest of kisses to that soft bit of skin just under her ear and she shivers. He is careful of her as his double fangs drop down while he penetrates her vein, easing into her skin on her half pained intake of air, sinking into the luxurious feel of her, blood trickling into his mouth, down over his tongue and the back of his throat while her hands and her fingers travel up, carding through his hair, teasing his pulse, cupping the back of his skull while he swallows, slowly igniting his nerves as never before. She was his anchor and in some distant parts, he feels like the circle connects and he slows and then stops, ruby mouth hovering droplets as he whispers sweet things into her ear, hands and fingers on her body; memorising again the curves and dips he knows all too well. He backs her toward the bed and lays her down, his body her blanket while all the soft things he whispers echo into the room, staining her skin pink, he smiles again, fondly, cradling her while he dips again into that space, filling her up and emptying her out and giving and taking her there, in the dark, the dusk, the shadows of her room. Her approving sighs follow him down and he pauses again to whisper to her, telling her stories, filling her head with the images he shares with no one, the beauty he sees but cannot ever express to anyone else; these are the gifts he gives to her alone.

Hours yet pass and he stops himself, licking her clean where he set his teeth, biting into his wrist he holds her in his lap, letting her drink her fill and see all the dark memories, after the light he gave her when he took from her, yet she doesn't mind and he is grateful for her, grateful for this idyll in a world that would see him truly dead. Yet she gives him more of her life, of the gift of herself and /she/ fills /him/ with all of her, with pieces and parts that wedge themselves in the cracks of his heart and his soul and he feels it all. This takes a lot from him, and he lays down with her, her lush mouth working the fast healing skin of his wrist until she is replete and whole and not so pale. He cuddles her, aftershocks of this pleasure rendering the world immediate diffuse and he falls into sleep, not paranoid, not plotting and not hurting; not anymore.

This is why he comes, this is why he has made her his, for she is the only one who has ever said to him:

"I love you."

And meant each aching letter of that utterance.


End file.
